


Le Rusé Renard

by KittenKin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:40:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: Based on paialovespie's idea (https://kitten-kin.tumblr.com/post/619685930586030080/):Greg is the chef and owner of a popular downtown restaurant.Mycroft is a regular patron who always dines alone.Greg takes delight in coming up with new dishes for his favorite customer.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 17
Kudos: 124
Collections: JustMystradeThoughts Plot Bunny Adoptions





	Le Rusé Renard

**Author's Note:**

> Before reading this fic, please please please Google Image Search for "stargazey pie". I feel like it's something everyone should at least know about.

Mycroft stared in horror at his personal mobile.

Still on for our midnight snack? Got a stargazey pie I want you to try! ☆ >ﾟ)⊃)))彡

His sense of self-preservation steered his mind toward moving up the timeline on certain situations so as to provide him with an excuse for cancelling, but he firmly discarded the notion before it could solidify. Each project had already been calculated and coordinated to result in the least losses of both life and pursuable happinesses; changes were not permitted except to further reduce unnecessary collateral damage.

"With dignity, Holmes," he muttered to himself in the privacy of his office, and sent his friend a reply.

I look forward to it. MH

☆☆☆☆☆

At a quarter past the start of the following day, Mycroft was perched sedately on a stool at the expediting counter of Le Rusé Renard, keeping cool with a minty glass of water and a dainty little salad of lamb's lettuce and friseé. This late, both customers and staff were gone and most of the equipment already cleaned and quiet, but despite industrial fans and a modern cooling system, the kitchen was still warm from the day's work and the last loads of dishes drying in the washers. He'd shed his jacket as soon as he'd greeted his host, and was still toasty enough to be glad of the water and the way the metal countertop felt against his wrist.

Late night meals cooked for him by one Gregory Lestrade; it was one of his few personal indulgences, and the only one that existed outside his home. Or perhaps the indulgence was Gregory himself; being allowed this strange intimacy, having been lured - he hardly knew how - into this unlooked-for friendship. The kitchen was a comfortable mix of contrasts; polished steel and well-used cast iron, cold air swirling around his ankles every time Gregory opened a refrigerator, the clack and clatter of meal preparation laid over the contented humming of a chef doing something for the sheer love of it.

The kitchen of Le Rusé Renard at the height of a dinner rush was comparable to a battlefield; noise building upon noise and shouted commands - or curses - rising up above it all, organic chaos descending upon strict organization, fire and smoke, bloody offal and bared bones. But whenever their schedules cooperated - and surprisingly the lives of busy government officials and chef-owners of small but popular restaurants ran on much the same demanding clock - Mycroft was treated to the sight of Gregory cooking without any regard for time or a predetermined recipe.

Once or twice, the chef had apologized for not having a meal ready for his guest to tuck into straight away, but eventually he'd realized that the show before the dinner was a perfect apperitif for Mycroft; a chance to let the shoulders loosen so that he could inhale the tantalizing aromas rising up from the cooktop, and for Mycroft's jaw to unclench so that he could drink and eat and be revived.

☆☆☆☆☆

The soft scrape of a plate being slid under his nose roused Mycroft from his musings, and he blinked in surprise as Gregory merely smiled and settled down across from him, elbows on counter and chin nestled in his hands. There was no second plate.

Their "midnight snacks" were most often a meal shared, whether it was a lavishly tricked out play on a ploughman's lunch spread out over the entire counter, or a single pot of stew and a basket of fresh-baked bread. They would fall into an easy rhythm of turns taken eating and talking, sharing bits of their days and pushing crostini and gougères and rillettes at each other, smiling into their wineglasses and basking in every sort of warmth. He looked forward to the company even more than the delicious food, and Gregory was a most excellent chef.

"You aren't eating?"

"Nah," Gregory twinkled at him. "I made and ate so many trying to get this thing right, I'm full up. Bon appetit!"

Ah, yes. Stargazey pie.

Not exactly something one would expect to find on the playful but elegant menu of this particular establishment. A fortifying sip of wine or a deep breath seemed in order, but Gregory hadn't poured anything except for water tonight, and he had no wish to offend the chef either, with a visible show of reluctance. With his best smile, Mycroft looked at his supper.

Instead of dried out sardine heads gasping at him from a rustic pie crust, however, he found himself staring down at a veritable cloud of puffed pastry threatening to spill out over the ruffled edges of a miniature pie pan. A small fish made of some root vegetable (parsnip? potato?) curled on top of the pastry like a fat little trout leaping out of a river. The front half of the fish rested on a small cluster of pea flowers, and grill marks decorated its body, the cross-hatches mimicking scales. Pastry stars twinkled along the edges of the plate holding the pie pan.

Surprised and now curious, Mycroft picked up the spoon that had been laid out for him and broke into the crust, enjoying the sight of the buttery-golden flakes disappearing into a slow surge of creamy sauce. Fragrant steam curled out immediately, and he closed his eyes, the better to inhale and investigate. Rich, smooth, savory, sweet. He hadn't even opened his mouth yet and he could practically taste it already.

The first bite was nothing less than heavenly. Instead of a soup or stew or sauce, what he spooned into his mouth seemed more like a mousse; airy and delicate. It was a savory dish still, nothing at all like a dessert, and yet it was subtly sweet with carrots and corn and shallots. The salt and butter of the pastry only served to highlight the daintiness of the filling, and though he discovered chunks of halibut in his second bite, there wasn't a trace of fishiness to be found. It was all cream and saffron, potatoes and thyme.

He got halfway through before Gregory's chuckles broke into his reverie.

"Rogue," Mycroft muttered, which only made the chef laugh all the louder.

"I was wondering if you'd beg off after I told you what I was making!"

"It would take more than an oily pasty to make me turn tail," Mycroft sniffed haughtily. Not much more, in point of fact, but Gregory need never know. He soon gave up on turning up his nose in favor of tucking back into the delightful fare.

"However did you make it so delicate?" he asked, knowing how much the chef loved to share his secrets to one who could be trusted with them.

"Poached the fish in milk first," Greg replied enthusiastically, launching into a long list of mistakes made and lessons learned. Mycroft was amused, impressed, and a smidge horrified to find that the man had eaten his way through no less than eleven failed recipes before hitting upon the right combination of preparatory techniques and ingredients. He ate and listened and smiled, and before long found that he'd scraped the little pan clean.  
His host swept the remnants of the meal away and into a nearby sink, then twirled to retrieve fresh cutlery and a small plate from a refrigerator before settling back down in his stool, hardly stopping at any point. It was a miracle that the man still had so much energy at the end of such long days as Mycroft knew he worked. He himself often felt drained and strained at the end of a day.

Perhaps that was the difference between doing something one found interesting, and doing something one loved?

The new plate contained four little tear-drop shaped cakes put together like a flower, alternating chocolate chiffon with raspberry mousse and vanilla chiffon with strawberry mousse. Fleck of gold and drizzles of honey decorated the points to suggest pollen and nectar, and the whole arrangement floated in a foamy pool of vanilla cream with mint leaves in between each cake-petal. Gregory provided himself with a fork as well, and prompted Mycroft to begin with a grin and a nod.

The only puzzling thing about pudding was that it was not accompanied by coffee, and Mycroft set to on both the cakes and the curious deviation from the norm with gusto.

Lamb's ear lettuce and friseé. Water instead of wine. Stewing vegetables made sweet, served almost like a sweet itself. And no coffee with pudding; not even a frothy cappucino or milk-mild latte. Nothing bitter, nothing spicy, nothing acidic.

"So, what are you sweetening me up in preparation for?" Mycroft asked abruptly, once the flower was reduced to crumbs. His dinner companion laughed as he pushed aside the plate. Gregory did not waste any time wondering that he'd been caught out, leaning across the counter instead and asking with a cheeky grin,

"Wondering if you'd be interested in coffee at mine."


End file.
